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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28081620">love works like this</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/penelopes/pseuds/penelopes'>penelopes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Men's Basketball RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Klay Deals with Another Injury, M/M, and Steph Tries to Deal with Him, based on recent events</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:53:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,400</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28081620</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/penelopes/pseuds/penelopes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steph is quiet for a minute, pondering. “Want me to come down there?” He finally asks, his tone cautious. Like he knows to walk on eggshells with Klay right now. </p><p>Shit, he does, doesn’t he? He already went through this last year with him. Maybe it’ll be their new tradition. Klay’s body fails him and he unfairly puts his boyfriend through the wringer because he can't process his own shit.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Stephen Curry/Klay Thompson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>love works like this</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>idk what world this exists in but it's not this one</p><p>enjoy :)</p><p>title from <a href="https://firstfullmoon.tumblr.com/post/636293197247692801/papenathys-lovmails-suiyobish">this</a> post.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Klay didn’t grab his phone when he left the gym. He was too busy limping and wincing in pain and listening to his trainer spew nonsensical bullshit as he carried the majority of Klay’s weight off the court.</p><p>The pain he feels--it hurts, maybe even worse than tearing his ACL did. Before, he wouldn’t have anything to compare this to, but it’s different now. He worked through a year and a half of pain and frustration with his knee before he experienced the thrill of normalcy--of trusting his body again. He still has the gnarly scar to show for it. </p><p>So, this pain is different, but he still has something to hold up to it and look for similarities. Something to think about, to mull over, while trainers fuss around him and talk over him. He knows this pain. And he knows what this means.</p><p>He was--fuck. He was so close. He was so, so close.</p><p>He knows how this will go. Tomorrow there will be visits with a doctor and tests and exams and assessments and long talks he doesn’t want to have. Tonight he’ll post up on the sectional in the den and not move a fucking muscle, and he’ll screen his calls.</p><p>For now, though, he lets them guide him to a training room and settle him on the exam table. They poke and prod, and he answers their questions in rote. He hurts so much; the pain cups his heel and extends up through his calf, intense. There is a faint tinge of pain in his left knee, but that--that’s gotta be all in his head, some phantom pain he’s feeling out of solidarity, because this time it’s his right leg that’s hurt.</p><p>Funny. Each one’s had its turn to fail him now.</p><p>He’s not dumb. He doesn’t come back from this quickly or easily, he already knows that. He looks up and around the room. His trainer’s eyebrows are so furrowed they’ve met in the middle. His agent is on the phone in the corner of the room, voice stilted and sharp. They all know that too.</p><p>-</p><p>His dad shows up somewhere between him swallowing two Tylenol dry and his trainer pressing a bag of ice to his swelling ankle.</p><p>Dad’s face always does this thing when he sees something he doesn’t like; he juts his chin out and purses his lips. Klay knows because he does the same; he got more than just basketball from him.</p><p>“How do you feel?” He asks, all business, but he puts his hand on Klay’s shoulder and squeezes affectionately. It kickstarts a burning in Klay’s chest that threatens to creep up his throat.</p><p>He clears his throat and shrugs, casual even in his discontent. “Hurts.” He shrugs again. Can’t really say more than that. He doesn’t need to. His dad nods, and turns to inspect Klay’s ankle.</p><p>Klay looks away, over to the clock on the wall. He was supposed to be home by now. Was going to order tacos and live text the draft with Steph.</p><p>Oh. Steph. He needs to know.</p><p>He reaches for his phone only to realize he left it in his bag back in the gym. Well, Steph probably already knows at this rate. With things like these, everyone who should know somehow already does by the time you hit the floor. From there, it doesn’t take long for every sports journalist in the business to think they have the scoop.</p><p>He’s probably a trending topic on Twitter and a breaking news banner across the bottom of all the sports channels. Klay Thompson: Done Before He Even Started.</p><p>He hasn’t even made it out of the gym and the whole world probably already knows he fucked himself. And are wondering how the team will compensate for this in the draft. Klay’s head spins thinking about it all.</p><p>“Bob said he’ll call tomorrow. Doctor’s first thing in the morning,” Greg says to the room, covering the speaker of his phone.</p><p>Klay only nods.</p><p>“Is he good to go?” Mychal asks Jared who’s procured some crutches and another bag of ice.</p><p>“Yeah,” Jared sighs heavily. “You know the drill: ice and elevate tonight. Doctor tomorrow.” He looks like he just saw someone kick a puppy.</p><p>Klay nods again.</p><p>Jared cuffs the back of his head, “Take care, champ.” Klay musters a small chuckle; that’s the most he can manage. The pain has subsided gradually, but in its absence has come the hole in his chest, rapidly turning black and nasty.</p><p>-</p><p>His dad helps him right himself with his crutches and grabs his bag for him before escorting him out to his car.</p><p>He fumbles his way into the backseat, stretching his leg out across the expanse of it. He leans his head against the cool window and closes his eyes. Takes advantage of the quiet and the small reprieve from the outside world.</p><p>It’s dark and it’s cold. Dad doesn’t say much, but he turns the radio on to a low hum. In the isolation of the backseat, Klay can feel a little sorry for himself.</p><p>He was so close and--God. He was so fucking close. He worked so fucking hard, and for what? For <em>what.</em></p><p>It’s not often he feels anger surge inside of him like this, but tonight, right now, he could smash every window in the car.</p><p>He breathes in deeply through his nose and exhales. Calms down a tick. What good is lashing out right now going to do, anyway? Not a bit of good. He needs to calm down, and he needs to call his fucking boyfriend. </p><p>That means he has to brave checking his phone. He grabs it, wary of what he might find.</p><p>His messages have been flooded and he has multiple missed calls. He ignores the questions and the well wishes from family members and friends, sees a text from his dad from earlier. In the middle of all the <em>Praying for you!! </em>messages, he sees a <em>Call me when you can </em>from Steph.</p><p>He opens the conversation to see Steph has sent him a few messages ranging from <em>Know I said I wouldn't, but I tried out that new cafe down the street w/ out you. Fat burrito, hella picante sauce 👌🏻 </em>to <em>Klay??? </em>to <em>Bob called me. </em>to <em>God. Please answer your phone? </em>They don't reveal the true intensity of his worry, Klay knows. Steph worries about every little thing, he's just good at masking it.</p><p>He texts him back, finally. <em>Call you when I’m home.</em></p><p>Steph might text again, but Klay doesn’t know. He shoves his phone back into his gym bag and leans his head back against the window. The condensation chills his cheek. He sighs heavily, watching street lights and passing cars.</p><p>“You good?” His dad finally asks.</p><p>Klay clears his throat. “Yeah,” he mutters, sure he’ll say something he doesn’t mean if he tries for anything more than that.</p><p>-</p><p>He needs help getting out of the vehicle, but gets himself to the front door easily enough. He had a lot of practice with the crutches last summer.</p><p>Rocco meets them at the front door, nails clicking against the hardwood as he trudges over to sniff the crutches and Klay’s shoe, then Mychal’s pants leg. Then he promptly stops caring and goes back to the dog bed he crawled out of.</p><p>Klay gets it, really. There's nothing more he wants to do than lay down and not have to think about anything at all. He wants to cut his brain off to stop the thoughts running laps around his mind. He wants to--he wants a fucking lobotomy, maybe.</p><p>He settles into the corner of his couch with no intention to move again for hours. His dad fluffs a pillow and shoves it none too gently under Klay’s leg, then leaves the room.</p><p>Klay leans his head back until it's nearly engulfed by the cushion. He closes his eyes and listens to the quiet of his house, only interrupted by his dad rummaging around in the kitchen. It's stifling, the quiet. Too big, too intense. Too oppressive.</p><p>It heightens everything. He can feel the blood rushing through his veins, his pulse racing, the burning in his sinuses--</p><p>His dad comes back in from the kitchen. Sets down a bottle of pain reliever and a tumbler of ice water within Klay’s reach.</p><p>“I fed Rocco. Can I do anything else?”</p><p>Klay clears the impending tears from the back of his throat. “Nah, I'm good. Don't need anything.” </p><p>His stomach is a giant knot; he couldn't eat if he wanted. And whatever else his dad could offer, he knows he doesn't want or need.</p><p>He gives Klay a look, like he wants to call him out on his bullshit, but can't, because he's been the same way before.</p><p>“For real. I'll call if I need anything.” He won't call.</p><p>After more placating and letting his dad switch out his ice pack again, Klay finally convinces him to go home.</p><p>Klay's not good company, anyway. And if he has to look at his dad’s crestfallen face anymore, he might lose it.</p><p>“Need me to pick you up in the morning?”</p><p>He waves him off. “I'll call a car.”</p><p>“You’ll let me know as soon as you know anything?” </p><p>Klay nods. “Thanks, dad.”</p><p>Mychal squeezes his knee. “Anytime.”</p><p>He leaves, then it's just Klay and the silence. He sighs heavily, like there's a fifty pound weight on his chest. His whole world--it’s just gone up in flames. Again.</p><p>He--God. He has to call Steph.</p><p>-</p><p>Steph <em>had </em>texted him back before, a single blue heart emoji and nothing else. It’s. A very Steph thing to do. Klay swallows roughly and presses the call button.</p><p>He presses the phone to his ear and settles back into the cushion. He tries to prepare himself for what Steph might say. For the coddling. For the questions. For the optimism.</p><p>Steph picks up on the third ring. “Hello?” Sounds like he’s been sitting on top of his phone. Sounds like he’s swallowed gravel. Sounds like something achingly familiar.</p><p>“Hey. Sorry I couldn’t call earlier.” In a huge way, though, he’s glad that he isn’t the one who had to tell Steph. He can’t imagine how that conversation would’ve gone. Having to break that news to him. That when it doesn’t look good, it’s because it’s not. That he’s on his own again. “Was busy--you know.” Clears his throat. “Being carted around and checked out.”</p><p>“It’s fine. God, it’s okay. I’m just--” he stops, ponders. He must not want to say the wrong thing; Steph <em>never </em>says the wrong thing if he can help it. He really puts all that media training to good use. Klay hates when he flips that switch with him and goes into performative, public Steph. Steph knows he hates that shit. Besides, there’s no right or wrong thing to say here; there’s really nothing to say.</p><p>“It’s good to hear your voice.” Steph settles on saying. He sounds like he might have been choked up before.</p><p>Klay feels wholly unprepared to accept any kindness right now, so weighed down by the distaste in his mouth, the soreness in his body, the faulty thoughts in his head. And Steph--he always offers it up so easily.</p><p>He huffs involuntarily. He doesn’t have anything to say to that. It’s good to talk to Steph, of course it is. But he can’t--it’s <em>too </em>much. He does too much; he is too <em>on; </em>he is too accepting of all of Klay’s parts.</p><p>“Baby…” Steph says right away. Quietly, directly into the phone, the beginning of something more. Usually, Klay would turn pink at the endearment, sensitive to the sweet way it takes shape in Steph’s mouth. Unravel, let his walls fall. Tonight, though, he can’t handle it. Because he knows what Steph is going to say next. And it’s nothing he wants to hear or deserves to hear or can bear to hear. He can’t handle the kindness and optimism. Steph isn’t the one laid up out of commission. Klay is.</p><p>“Don’t--I. I can’t. I’m fine.” He feigns indifference. There’s no room for any other emotion right now. And he doesn’t need Steph’s pity. He can’t handle Steph’s pity right now. “Don’t say anything. I'm fine.”</p><p>Steph ignores his poor attempt at pushing him away. “You’re not fine. <em>I’m </em>not fine. None of this is <em>fine</em>.” And he doesn’t sound fine. He sounds miserable. He’s probably been sitting around all evening bent out of shape with worry and concern and disappointment. Waiting around for Klay. And Klay <em>hates </em>that. He hates that he’s the reason that’s happened too.</p><p>But now he’s got him on the phone, and all Klay wants to do is end the call. He doesn’t have it in him to listen to Steph <em>baby </em>him and coddle him indirectly, and also lay on the couch keeping himself awake with all the ways he’s fucked himself, the team, and his career.</p><p>“I am.” He sighs. “Gotta be. Gotta see the doctor tomorrow. Tests and stuff.”</p><p>Steph is quiet for a minute, pondering. “Want me to come down there?” He finally asks, his tone cautious. Like he knows to walk on eggshells with Klay right now. </p><p>Shit, he does, doesn’t he? He already went through this last year with him. Maybe it’ll be their new tradition. Klay’s body fails him and he unfairly puts his boyfriend through the wringer because he can't process his own shit.</p><p>Fuck. He can’t believe any of this. He can’t do this all over again. He has to get his shit together and stop being so annoyed. Steph just wants to help; that's all he's ever wanted to do. But Klay...he's never been good at letting him.</p><p>
“You can’t do that.” He settles on.</p><p>Steph can’t just...come to LA tonight.</p><p>“Yes, I can?” Steph asks, confusion evident in his tone. Like he doesn’t think it sounds like such a crazy suggestion to get on a private jet and come to LA for Klay.</p><p>“Steph,” he sighs again. “No. There’s no point. You shouldn’t.” Why come? So he can see the sad sack of shit Klay is in person?</p><p>“Klay, I should. Let me--let me be with you.” He pleads, a tinge of desperation in his voice. Klay pinches the bridge of his nose. Steph’s voice has done that thing he hates so much--equal parts determination and incredulity. He's never given up on anything in his life and he dares anyone to think he might.</p><p>“But you don’t need to. I can manage by myself.” He swallows around the lump in his throat. He's always managed by himself. This is for him to deal with. At a later date.</p><p>“You don’t have to, though. Do you want me to come?” His voice dips, worried. Confidence wearing thin. Uncertain in a way he isn’t often.</p><p>“It’s not. It’s not about that,” Klay admits. Klay always wants to see Steph. He wants to see him every day for the rest of his life. But, it’s not about that.</p><p>“What's it about then? Do you not want me to come?” He pushes, nearly desperate for something Klay isn't sure he can give him right now.</p><p>He can't tell him what it's about. He doesn't know, really. Maybe. Maybe it's that he's so fucking angry that, if he has Steph here, his resolve will falter. That having Steph here will make it real. Realer than the crutches and the painkillers and the inability to get off the fucking couch by himself.</p><p>Wholesome and whole Steph, a few scars but a strong core and enviable ankles, is, unfortunately, a reminder that Klay’s probably just fucked himself for another year.</p><p>How does he tell Steph that? That he doesn't know if he can look at him without a sickening sense of urgency looming over him. That he can't look at him without feeling like he's let him down?</p><p>But, God. It's <em>Steph. </em>And it's always been Steph. He’s never been able to say no to Steph. That's always been one of his greatest flaws.</p><p>Even when he wants to wallow all alone. Even when he wants to be spared the coddling. Even when he isn't sure he can look at Steph's face because he's scared he might not be able to stand it--the equal amounts of envy and shame he'll feel.</p><p>Even in all of that, he maybe wants to see his face. Probably more than anything. And he wants to sit in the silence with him and also all the noise. And if there's anyone he'd ever fall apart with, it'd be Steph.</p><p>It's wild how crazy love will make you feel. It’s intoxicating and debilitating and so confusing.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, eventually, trying to disguise how choked up he is. He wants to crawl in a very dark hole where neither Steph nor anyone else can see him.</p><p>Steph sighs shakily. “Okay. Okay, yeah. I'm coming to you. I'll see you tonight.”</p><p>Klay knows that's what Steph needs. He needs to see Klay and to hold his hand and he needs Klay to let him.</p><p>Klay, though. Klay isn't sure what he needs.</p><p>-</p><p>Klay dozes off for a while and only wakes up because there is someone trying to break into his house and Rocco is barking incessantly about it.</p><p>Startled, he pushes himself up onto his elbows in time to see the shape of who he hopes is Steph crouched down trying to quiet Rocco.</p><p>Klay groans and drops back against the cushion, half-asleep and half-annoyed that he’s no longer fully asleep.</p><p>Steph stops murmuring to Rocco and makes his way into the living room at the sound. He quietly walks up to Klay where he’s stretched out. He looks down at Klay; Klay looks up at him. He doesn’t say anything, just looks Klay up and down, a small, sad smile on his face.</p><p>If he’s going to look and not say anything, then Klay is too. The TV illuminates him in soft blues and whites. He looks comfortable in his skimpy leggings and sweatshirt. He looks tired too; red and puffy around the eyes. Has he been crying?</p><p>“Hey,” Steph finally says, reaching out to touch. He walks his fingers up from Klay’s knee to his thigh and settles them there. Klay’s skin runs hot at the attention, lit up from the inside and always easy for Steph. “I texted when I landed.”</p><p>“I was asleep.” The air between them is stilted. Steph nods slowly and looks around the room like maybe he’ll find something to say.</p><p>Klay feels like he has heartburn, but like, emotionally. He loves Steph for coming down here, especially when he didn't have to, but also, he was right before. Looking at Steph’s face and his healthy hands makes him feel heavy all over.</p><p>“This feels a bit familiar, doesn't it?” Steph chuckles. He looks back at Klay, smirk forming on his face.</p><p>Last summer, they were nearly in the same position. Klay injured on his couch and Steph waltzing in like the world’s most unqualified but determined bedside nurse. They’re back here again, aren’t they? </p><p>Klay chuckles humorlessly. “Yeah, fucked myself over two years in a row, right?” He feels about the same as he did last year. Hurt, pissed off, and like his best years might be behind him, again.</p><p>Steph scoffs and shakes his head. He eases down to the floor, sitting on his haunches, level with Klay. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he murmurs, mouth turned down. He slowly reaches out to touch Klay’s face. It’s gentle. First the shell of his ear, then the scruff of his beard, his brow bone.</p><p>Suddenly, Klay feels like he might cry at the tenderness of it. He closes his eyes against it. He knows Steph didn’t mean it like that; he never does. He’s good, and he’s kind, and he’s <em>here</em>.</p><p>Klay is so fucked up inside about it. Steph is here and he loves him and he's so tired and also he's so angry. He doesn't know how to do anything right now.</p><p>“Fuck,” Klay breathes. The wall he's made a painstaking effort to build up crumbles a little.</p><p>He turns his head a minuscule amount into the warmth of Steph’s touch. A small, momentary reprieve he'll allow himself.</p><p>Steph takes his left hand and eases it toward the sinew of muscle between Klay’s neck and shoulder, squeezes. His palm is warm against the point of tension. His long fingers curl over and press into the top of Klay’s back. It's compassion and understanding.</p><p>He feels like he's been cracked open. He doesn't tell Steph to stop. He couldn't form a sentence if he wanted. He's incapacitated by the steady undoing of the stress on his shoulders and the calming steadiness of Steph’s thumb tracing his hairline.</p><p>He grunts, and hopes it says something like <em>I can't do this </em>and <em>don't stop </em>and <em>everything really fucking sucks </em>and anything else he can't say.</p><p>Steph must take it as a sound of contentment because he chuckles and pats Klay’s chest. “Come here,” he says, and leans forward.</p><p>Klay lets himself be kissed. Opens up for the warmth of Steph’s mouth, the gentle way he caresses Klay’s cheek.</p><p>He really feels like he might cry. He's tried all night to keep everything bottled up tight because he doesn't want to deal with it. He <em>can’t </em>deal with it. None of it’s fair, and he knew this would happen if Steph were here.</p><p>He looks at Klay and he listens to Klay, then he says <em>okay I understand </em>and makes Klay feel seen like no one else ever has before.</p><p>It's terrifying--the unknown of this new injury and the fact that Steph somehow could make things better if Klay would just let him. </p><p>It doesn't seem fair and it doesn't seem right. He feels like there's a knot twisted up beyond comparison inside of him.</p><p>Steph slowly loosens it up. Even when Klay doesn't want him to. Even when Klay doesn't know how. Steph does.</p><p>He makes a small, wounded sound in Steph’s mouth that makes Steph pull away.</p><p>“Hey, you're good. It's good,” Steph whispers.</p><p>Klay doesn't know if either of those things are true. But Steph seems determined to make them so.</p><p>He eventually pulls away from Klay, and Klay feels the loss viscerally. But he squeezes onto the couch between the cushion and Klay’s legs, careful not to jostle where he's hurt.</p><p>He takes Klay’s legs and rests them over his own. “What are we watchin’? Swamp monsters? Start it over, hm?” Steph looks at Klay expectantly, a small smile on his face.</p><p>Klay loves him so much it's ridiculous. Here he comes barreling into Klay’s house after midnight, forcing Klay to be a person, but not forcing his hand.</p><p>Klay didn't think he could stand to look at his face without feeling so incredibly jealous, but it's a great face. It's a kind face, and the only one that really seems to know Klay. He comes in and doesn't make Klay say or do anything until he's ready, and for that, Klay is thankful.</p><p>After a moment of just staring back at Steph, overwhelmed and sensitive to all the emotions brewing inside of him, Klay starts the episode over.</p><p>He doesn't cry, but it still feels like it could happen.</p><p>Halfway through the episode, Klay feels a warm touch on the thin skin of his ankle and foot. Steph is absentmindedly rubbing his thumb in circles on the skin there, his touch so light it's like a breath. But the warmth, the warmth is undeniable. It burns Klay up inside.</p><p>Just from a single touch. Just from his boyfriend absently touching where his leg is bruised and tender while he remains engrossed in his show.</p><p>It releases something in him. A thought leaks out; he can't believe this is happening all over again. How is he supposed to be okay after this? None of it seems fair because it's <em>not. </em>And what if this is an insurmountable feat to overcome?</p><p>That's what is the most terrifying to think about and face. After all the anger and feeling sorry for himself subsides, he has to face the scary possibility that maybe this means his best years are behind him.</p><p>He can't believe that, and he doesn't want it to be true. But the thought is there rearing its ugly head.</p><p>And Klay is too tired to fight it. Tomorrow he might succumb to the anger and the pity and the disappointment, but tonight he's too tired.</p><p>-</p><p>He must fall asleep because the next thing he knows is the sudden silence after the television shuts off. He jolts, easily spooked now.</p><p>“Sorry, sorry,” Steph whispers. From the dim light of a lamp, Klay can just make out Steph's face.</p><p>“Wanna sleep here or try to make it upstairs?”</p><p>Klay squints and takes a moment to assess. He's groggy and his eyes sting. He doesn't really want to move, but there's the beginning of a crick in his neck that will only be worse in the morning if he stays here. Also, his bed is big enough for the both of them, unlike the couch.</p><p>“Bed,” he croaks. Clears his throat. “Bed, please.”</p><p>“Bed,” Steph agrees. Then he's off the couch and helping Klay very carefully right himself.</p><p>Between a crutch, the stairway railing, and Steph's steady hands helping him, he makes it upstairs and to his bedroom without much fuss.</p><p>After he eases into bed, Steph fluffs a pillow for his leg and shoves two more Tylenol in his hand.</p><p>Then he strips out of his leggings and shirt before he crawls into bed behind Klay. He curls up against him, forever cautious of his limbs.</p><p>He kisses Klay’s jaw. “You good?”</p><p>Good as he can be. He nods.</p><p>They fall asleep like that, Steph tucked into Klay’s side, mouth slack against Klay’s shoulder within a few minutes. Klay follows soon after.</p><p>-</p><p>Klay blinks awake to the brightness of a sunbeam shining right on his face through the window. Forgot to close the blinds last night. He's warm all over; Steph lying half on top of him radiating an ungodly amount of heat.</p><p>He stretches a little, cataloguing the usual aches  and stiffness in his joints, measuring the pain in his leg against it. Still hurts, hours later. Dull, but tender enough to remind him it's not going anywhere.</p><p>He groans and presses his head back into his pillow. Steph snuffles against the crease of his arm, face buried there between his chest and bicep, forehead in his armpit. It tickles, the way he unconsciously rubs his nose against Klay’s skin, adjusting in his sleep.</p><p>Klay looks down at him--he's all tanned skin, golden in the sunlight. His braids, the sunburned nape of his neck, the clasp of his necklace against it, the long expanse of his muscular back, the sheet twisted around his waist.</p><p>If Klay weren't horizontal already, looking at Steph would knock him off his feet. He's--everything. And sometimes he feels like too much to Klay. Too much for Klay to bear. Klay wants and thinks too much. He means too much to Klay.</p><p>Klay wants to give too much of himself--is willing to give everything, and he planned on it. Was going to give Steph, the team, the organization--fuck, <em>everyone</em>--everything he had. And now. He can't give him anything again.</p><p>How does he look at Steph and tell him he's sorry he'll have to do it on his own?</p><p>Klay has been feeling the disappointment since he went down on the court clutching the back of his leg, the sudden rush of blood in his ears blocking out all other noise besides <em>no, no, no. </em>He saw the disappointment on his trainer's face on the court and his agent’s face from the corner of the exam room. His dad’s face in the rear view mirror. </p><p>He can't deal with Steph turning, looking at him, face crestfallen. The realization that Klay’s not going to be of any good use for a while written all over his face.</p><p>How's he supposed to deal with that? Last night, it didn't seem like that's how things were going to go, but Klay can't be sure. If he's thinking about how this will affect the rest of the season, Steph probably is too, and is just too kind to say anything right now.</p><p>Thinking about it sours his mood again. Sets him on edge, makes him a little miserable. And he still has Steph lying on top of him, and he has to go to the doctor, and he doesn't even know what time it is.</p><p>He groans and shifts, which gets Steph’s attention. He wakes up softly and slowly, blinking his eyes open, tightening his arm around Klay’s middle, arching his back in a stretch.</p><p>“Mornin’,” he says after a minute, voice groggy from disuse, with a small smile. Doesn't look disappointed yet.</p><p>“Mornin’,” Klay replies. Sighs and looks away. Grabs his phone off the nightstand. “Gotta head to the clinic at ten.”</p><p>“Time’s it?” Steph drawls. Head pillowed on Klay’s shoulder looking like he might drift back off to sleep any second.</p><p>Klay gulps, can't look at him anymore. “9:03.”</p><p>“Oh. Good,” Steph breathes slowly.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>He can feel Steph look up at him, gaze boring into the side of his face. “How do you feel?” Steph asks, a little cautious, but also like he might try to pick Klay up and carry him to the doctor depending on Klay’s response.</p><p>Klay shrugs, dislodging Steph from where he's perched on him. Steph raises up on his elbow and looks intently at Klay. “Sore. Tired.” He doesn't say more, because if he does, he may say too much.</p><p>It's too early to unpack all the ways he feels like he's disappointing everyone.</p><p>Steph's face turns down in a frown while his eyebrows crinkle together in a furrow. Klay can nearly see the gears in his head working to figure out a way to remedy that.</p><p>“I'm fine,” Klay tries to reassure him. Steph’s frown only deepens at that. No success then. “Promise. Gotta get up, though.”</p><p>Steph still looks dissatisfied with Klay’s response, but moves back so Klay can push himself up in bed.</p><p>He wasn't lying; he does feel sore, mostly all over. The rest of his body commiserating with his ankle.</p><p>He grabs for his crutches and heaves himself up. He needs to change into another pair of sweats and brush his teeth. Anything more than that seems out of the question.</p><p>“Think we have time to grab breakfast?” Steph asks from behind him.</p><p>Klay’s quiet for a moment. “You don't have to go,” he says, turning around to face Steph. He's giving him an out. Besides, Klay doesn't want to see Steph try to hide the pity on his face during the appointment. He may be able to hide it right now, but he won't then. Klay knows him.</p><p>Steph has one arm in his shirt and pops his head through the neck hole. “What?” He says, perplexed. He slowly finishes putting his shirt on. Klay watches all the golden skin disappear.</p><p>Would he be able to handle Steph standing there when the doctor inevitably tells him his season’s over (and it feels like his career’s over, his life’s over)?</p><p>“Just. You don't have to,” Klay tells him, not offering much more in explanation.</p><p>“What do you mean I don't have to?” Steph bites, visibly hurt by Klay’s implication. Klay doesn't want that, but he. Has so much going on in his head he feels crazy. He doesn't need Steph making him feel any crazier. “Why do you think I came here?”</p><p>“I didn't ask you to come,” Klay snaps defensively, before he can think better of it. But it's the truth. He didn't ask Steph to come here. He didn't ask Steph for anything, he reminds him. He was going to be fine sulking on his own, being angry with himself and the whole world. Yeah, it's nice to have Steph here, but it's also a devastating reminder that things aren't going so well.</p><p>Steph scoffs. “That's what we <em>do. </em>That's what <em>I </em>do. I show up,” he says, emphatically. “Of course I'm gonna show up for you.”</p><p>Klay gulps and drops his gaze, properly scorned. It is what they do. They show up. He's glad Steph’s here--he really is. He's comfort, and he's safety.</p><p>But Klay’s scared the other shoe is going to drop soon. Steph will look at him and say <em>Again? You're letting me down again?</em></p><p>“I know you're angry and in pain, so I won't hold your lapse in judgement against you,” Steph says, tone a little lighter, forgiving. “Go brush your teeth, I'll feed Rocco, then we’ll go. Okay?” He looks at Klay expectantly.</p><p>Klay looks up at him. He feels his cheeks redden. “Yeah,” is all he says.</p><p>“Okay,” Steph says. He walks around the bed and stops in front of Klay on his way out of the room.</p><p>He leans up and presses a quick kiss to Klay’s mouth.  “Okay,” he repeats, like he's making his mind up about something. Then he goes downstairs.</p><p>Klay trudges over to the bathroom, all mixed up inside. That burning feeling is back in his chest. Emotional heartburn or some shit like that.</p><p>-</p><p>Steph helps him down the stairs and into the car before sliding into the driver’s seat.</p><p>The drive is quiet, and there is time for Steph to go to the McDonald’s drive-thru where Klay’s sure the guy at the window recognizes them, but doesn't say anything. Steph charms him with that easy, pretty smile. Then the drive is filled with the sounds of them scarfing down dollar-menu breakfast sandwiches.</p><p>Klay steals an extra hash brown and Steph steals glances at him, but doesn't say anything about the hash brown or anything else for that matter.</p><p>Klay doesn't say anything either. They're on the way to his doctor telling him he's out indefinitely. What really is there to say?</p><p>-</p><p>After another examination, x-rays, and thirty minutes waiting, the doctor comes in and tells him what he already knew and everyone else probably feared. Torn achilles' tendon.</p><p>The doctor keeps talking and Klay listens, distantly. If there were such a thing as a good tear, that's what this is. Surgery and an eventual full recovery.</p><p>He feels the blood rush to his head again, his pulse a steady throbbing in his ears. He worked so hard and for what. How is this happening again? This was supposed to be the year he came back, better than ever. He was going to wear his blue and gold and make a whole city proud of him again. He was going to play with Steph again, chase another championship with him by his side. And now.</p><p>Now that's all gone to shit. He's out for another season, another year. He stares at the doctor while he talks about getting him squared away, getting a consultation with a surgeon, scheduling surgery.</p><p>He doesn't look over at Steph who's standing beside him. Can't bear to see the look on his face.</p><p>After the doctor steps out, there's a quiet moment where it's just him and Steph.</p><p>Steph doesn't say anything in the few minutes they have alone, but he does put his hand on Klay’s shoulder and gently rub his thumb back and forth.</p><p>Steph's pity is almost worse than his disappointment. Klay shrugs off his hand; he doesn't need that from him.</p><p>Steph sucks in a sharp breath, hurt, but if he was going to say anything, he's interrupted by the door opening again before he can.</p><p>Klay is thankful for it. He can't deal with what Steph might have said. He can't deal with Steph being angry at him or annoyed or disappointed. He can't deal with <em>any </em>of this.</p><p>He's on edge again, ready to scream at the top of his lungs or cry--<em>anything </em>to feel something other than anger.</p><p>-</p><p>He tries to pick a fight on the way back home. Not because he wants to fight with Steph, but because everything inside of him is threatening to boil over.</p><p>Steph is quiet in the car, leaning against the door, body turned as far away from Klay as he can manage while still safely driving. He hasn't spoken to Klay since Klay shrugged off his gesture in the doctor’s office. Klay gets it; he does. He’d want to be far away from himself too.</p><p>Steph's just been trying to help, but Klay’s too in his head to accept it for what it is.</p><p>“Guess you can head back home, now,” he says to disrupt the quiet. “Gotta get ready for the season soon.” Preseason is just in a few weeks, and what will he be doing? He was supposed to be gearing up for his first game back in eighteen months. He was supposed to be going to training camp and doing media day and stepping out on the court at Chase Center healthy and excited and in love with it all.</p><p>Steph only sighs, eyes intent on the road. Klay tries again.</p><p>“I'm sure you guys will manage okay. I know you're probably worried about how this’ll fuck with the season.” He chuckles harshly and humorlessly. “I know I would be.”</p><p>“Will you shut up?” Steph responds, voice rough. He sounds hurt.</p><p>“It's the truth, though,” Klay spits, unable to stop himself. It feels good to argue, to finally release some of that pent up emotion. It's probably not the right way and Steph certainly doesn't deserve it, but. “You've got training camp to worry about; don't have time to deal with me. S’fine, though, I don't need your pity.”</p><p>“I said<em> stop</em>.” Steph raises his voice; it wavers like it does when he's about to cry. He doesn’t say anything or look at Klay until he pulls into Klay’s driveway and turns off the ignition.</p><p>He turns to face him fully, eyes red and mouth soft. “Stop being a dick just for the sake of being a dick. I don't pity you, Klay. I love you and I'm <em>sad </em>for you. None of this is fair, and I'm sorry you're going through it, but don't take that shit out on me. I'm sorry that you can't play. I'm sorry that everything is so unfair. But I'm trying to be here for you, so stop beating us both up and <em>deal </em>with this.”</p><p>He has tears leaking from the corners of his eyes when he's done talking and he shamelessly wipes at them. </p><p>Fuck, he made Steph cry. He never wants to actually make Steph upset. It felt good for a whole one second to lash out. And now there's just emptiness and guilt.</p><p>“Fuck,” he says, miserable. It really doesn't feel good. He doesn't feel better; he feels embarrassed after the momentary thrill of it. All Steph does is try to help, and what has Klay done besides make him feel bad about it?</p><p>“Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm just--” his own voice cracks, the weight of how awful he feels finally too much to withstand. “I'm so fucking <em>mad</em>. I was so close, Steph.” He looks over at him, vision blurry with tears, begging him to understand. Steph’s eyes soften; he always does. Of course he does.</p><p>“God dammit. I was so fucking close to having it all again. And it's--” his voice breaks. He gulps in a deep breath, tears falling onto his cheeks. “just. <em>Gone.</em>” Everything he worked so hard for up to this point seems pointless. A waste. He feels like a waste right now. And he knows that that feeling won't last forever. But it's burning so bright he can't see beyond it.</p><p>Steph leans toward him, then, across the center console, elbows all in his space. “Hey. Hey,” he shushes Klay, wiping some of his tears away. Klay closes his eyes, gives into it, lets him. “It wasn’t all for nothing. I promise,” he says softly. “You're the best that I know and you always will be.”</p><p>Klay huffs pathetically at that. He doesn't know that he believes Steph. But he knows Steph does; he doesn't do or believe anything halfway.</p><p>“Hey, I mean it.” Steph reassures. “You'll get through this, and I’m going to be right here the whole time, again. Even when you're angry and a little mean and a giant fucking idiot about stuff.”</p><p>He is a giant fucking idiot about stuff, isn't he? He feels miserable for being mean to Steph. “I'm sorry,” he says, still upset. “I'm sorry you'll have to do it on your own. That I let you down.” He still thinks that. He might be an idiot, but the thought of Steph being disappointed still weighs heavy on his mind.</p><p>“None of that,” Steph dismisses quickly. “Is that what you think? Klay, you never have, and you never could disappoint me.” He leans forward even more and kisses the apple of Klay’s cheek. Klay turns red, a flame coming to life in his chest. “You're the best I know,” he repeats.</p><p>Klay sighs, still disbelieving, but more accepting of Steph’s love and care. He leans into Steph's touch and allows himself to just breathe. It feels like the first deep breath he's taken in hours.</p><p>He's still a little mad at the world, at the circumstances, and there's still that nagging thought in the back of his mind that he may never get back to his old self.</p><p>But Steph's right--he usually always is--he can't let that eat him up. He has to push forward and do it all over again. And he has to do that for himself. His dad has always told him to stay hungry.</p><p>It'll be easier, he knows, with Steph by his side.</p><p>Steph pulls away eventually, groaning about the new soreness in his arms from leaning across the console for so long. “I might be out of commission, too, now,” Steph jokes, making a show of dramatically bending and extending his arm, wincing.</p><p>“You're a problem,” Klay says, rolling his eyes at Steph’s dramatics.</p><p>“Not kidding!” Steph kids, “Might have to rest for a few days.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Klay asks, cottoning on.</p><p>Steph smiles all big and annoying.</p><p>“I probably got room for you,” Klay says, abashed.</p><p>“You're not going to send me back to Oakland just yet?”</p><p>Klay’s smile falters. He's going to feel bad about that for a while.</p><p>“Nah,” he says. “You can stay. I'll need someone to nurse me back to health after my surgery anyway.” He says nonchalantly, like having Steph around isn't going to be the part of his day everyday.</p><p>“Oh, <em>good.</em>” Steph leers. “I've been told my bedside manner is <em>impeccable.</em>”</p><p>Klay loves him so much and feels so overwhelmed by it and everything else that's transpired in the past two days that he feels like he may cry all over again.</p><p>He won't, but it's a near thing.</p><p>Instead, he leans forward and smacks a kiss on Steph’s mouth. He tastes like shitty McDonald’s iced coffee. He tastes so good.</p><p>“Think we can go inside now and I can take a nap on you?” There's really nothing more he wants to do right now. Then maybe later he'll smoke a joint and not think for a while and take another nap on Steph.</p><p>Steph kisses him this time, smiling against his mouth. “Like I said, <em>impeccable </em>bedside manner, so yes.”</p><p>-</p><p>Steph helps him inside and deposits him on the sectional while he goes about feeding Rocco and letting him outside.</p><p>When he comes back, he squeezes in between the back of the couch and Klay, like he did the night before.</p><p>This time, though, Klay feels lighter. Less guarded. Less angry about every single thing in existence. More willing to share the load with Steph. More willing to face whatever's in store for him. He falls asleep with his face tucked into the warm skin of Steph’s neck, peaceful.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>please do let me know what you think!</p><p>you can reblog <a href="https://collarboen.tumblr.com/post/637535361293221889/love-works-like-this-stephen-curryklay">here</a> and you can come chat with me <a href="https://collarboen.tumblr.com">here</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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